


One Man’s Junk is Another Man’s Treasure

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock does not, has never, and never expects to enjoy anything sexual. He considers his genitals a nuisance, arousal something to be dealt with quickly so he can carry on with more important matters.</p><p>Then John, ever-surprising, makes him reconsider his decades-long stance on the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Man’s Junk is Another Man’s Treasure

**Author's Note:**

> For Oreo. She gave me a title and nothing else. I AM NOT TO BLAME FOR THE TITLE THIS TIME. 
> 
> Off to write more smut! [Taking requests today on tumblr.](http://lockedin221b.tumblr.com/post/69872466696/)

Sherlock has always despised his genitals. They have always been, like many aspects of corporeal existence, a distraction. He has never cared for masturbating, though at times he must as it is often the quickest way to dispel of unwanted erections. He doesn’t care that it’s undersized; he’d rather it shrink away into nonexistence, despite the illogical nature of such a desire. Sherlock decided long ago that his penis and testicles and prostate were nothing more than a nuisance.

So it surprises him when John tells him one night, while they lay together in Sherlock’s bed, that he wants to give Sherlock a hand job. John, who only weeks ago admitted to himself—and, as a result, to Sherlock—that he was in love with another man despite no previous (or since) attraction to men. John, who only days ago admitted to masturbating to thoughts of Sherlock. John, who is perfectly content with a nonsexual relationship with Sherlock. They share a bed, kiss, even cuddle on the sofa. John began unabashedly excusing himself after some make out sessions to go get off in the loo. Last week Sherlock told him he didn’t have to hide it, so John wanked right next to him on the sofa.

It’s not that Sherlock is asexual. He isn’t. He experiences physical attraction to men, and even some women. He just never likes to act on it, either with the individual or on his own. Arousal is distracting and tedious to deal with. He has explained this to John, who smiled and said it was fine. Now he’s telling Sherlock he wants to give him a handjob.

Sherlock doesn’t take his gaze away from the ceiling, where moments ago he was cataloguing and comparing paint samples in his mind palace. “Why?”

“Curiosity?” John offers. He sits up and looks down at Sherlock, and Sherlock is forced to meet his gaze.

“I’m not impotent, if that’s what you’re curious about.”

John grins. “I know. I’ve seen your morning wood.”

Sherlock can’t help the little wave of heat that rises to his cheeks. “You know how I feel about sexual acts.”

“I know what you’ve told me, and I’m wondering if you’ve simply never had a good experience.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, there is no ‘good experience’ for me when it comes to arousal.”

“Have you even had sex with someone else? Done anything sexual with someone else?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course. I’ve interacted sexually with four separate individuals since I was seventeen.”

“Did you love any of them?”

The question catches Sherlock off guard, like so much about John. He doesn’t answer immediately, but he can’t not answer. “No.”

“You love me.” It’s more statement than question.

Sherlock answers anyway, “Of course.”

“It can be different, when it’s with someone you care about.”

“I don’t see how.”

John smiles down at him and combs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “Everything’s different when it’s with someone you care about.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. It’s a startling piece of logic that he can’t refute. It’s annoying when John manages such a feat. It’s also endearing and part of the reason Sherlock loves him.

“I won’t push it. But if you change your mind, I’d like to.” John settles back down beside him.

Sherlock can feel John’s breathing against his skin. There’s no anticipation, no expectation. It’s relaxed, and Sherlock suspects John might even fall asleep soon. He says he won’t press the matter, and he’s sincere. Sherlock shuts down his mind palace completely for the night and wraps his arms around John. John smiles and snuggles close.

 

Their discussion sticks in Sherlock’s head through the rest of the day. Even with a spectacular specimen of anaphylaxis Molly calls him in to have a look at, Sherlock can’t entirely put aside John’s words. When he’s back home, he goes to the bedroom and strips. He lays down and closes his eyes to conjure up memories of John. He’s seen John in more ways than most people could count. He’s even seen him on the loo, in the shower, dreaming. He’s woken him from nightmares on more than one occasion. He narrows in on the memories of his naked body, of his arousal, of their times making out. He brings to the forefront of his mind last week’s event, of John masturbating next to him on the sofa. He feels the physical arousal and starts rubbing himself. However, so far, it’s as frustrating and unpleasant as every other time.

He doesn’t hear John come home, and only when the bedroom door opens do his eyes snap open.

“Ah,” John says. “Sorry. Want me to go?”

“No.” Sherlock sits up. “I thought about what you said last night. As I suspected, regardless of my feelings for you, arousing thoughts of you are not enough to make this—” he gestures disgustedly at his semi-erect penis “—any more enjoyable.”

John grins. “Was that all you were thinking about?”

“What?”

“Images?”

Sherlock scowls. “What else does one think about when trying to wank?”

John sits on the edge of the bed. “Those pesky things calls emotions. You think I get off on just how gorgeous you are?” He pressed his palm against Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s not why I love you, and it’s certainly not what gets me off.”

“What are you suggesting, that people actually masturbate to porn for the deep, meaningful characterisations?”

John laughs. It’s not mocking, but it still makes Sherlock feel like he’s missing something. John, of course, clarifies that he is, “A lot of people don’t need more than visual and physical stimuli to enjoy sex and masturbation. You’re not a lot of people.”

Still confused and growing more frustrated by the minute, Sherlock huffs. “You’re not making sense.”

“It’s about emotional stimulation, mental stimulation even.” John toes off his shoes and climbs onto the bed to sit cross-legged across from Sherlock. “Why do you love me?”

“You know why.”

“That’s not the point. Say it aloud. Tell yourself why you love me.”

Sherlock sighs. “You’re clever, clever in a way I can never be. You’re loyal to the point of insanity. You show me more patience than I ever deserve, least of all from you. You accept me.”

John gives him a warm smile and pressed his hand over Sherlock’s chest. “And how does that make you feel? I’m not just talking emotionally. Analyse your physical reactions too.”

Sherlock nodded. “My heart rate has increased. I’m sure my pupils have dilated. My breathing has become shallow.” The realisation hit him like a cuff to the back of his head. “Oh.”

“Exactly. You’re aroused. You may not be feeling it down there, but there’s still-”

“Excitement,” Sherlock cuts him off. “Being with you is exciting.”

John’s smile vanishes and he sighs. “Sherlock.”

“These are all signs of excitement, not arousal. I enjoy being with you. It elates me.”

“Fine. Now I’m going to tell you why I love you.”

“How will that-”

John presses his fingers against Sherlock’s mouth. “You’re a genius, obviously. You’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever known. You’re courageous even if you won’t admit it. You’re insane, and that’s definitely an attraction for me. Most importantly, though, you gave me meaning. You brought purpose into my life again. Not by being your sidekick. You made me see myself in a new way, a better way. You showed me I wasn’t lame, in more ways than one. You proved to me that I have potential. You make me a better person, even if you do drive me round the bend.” John lowers his hand and leans forward to kiss Sherlock.

Sherlock leans into it automatically. Hearing John’s words, he wants to kiss him. He wants that contact, to reassure John yes, that’s exactly right. He does believe those things about John. He’s so glad John understands it—understands him. As they kiss, little more than lips pressing hard against each other, Sherlock’s excited state grows. It spreads.

John smiles into the kiss before pulling back. “Now do you get it? How love can be as big an aspect of arousal as visual and physical stimuli, more sometimes?”

Face flush—entire body flush really—Sherlock has no other option but to nod. Any denial would be immediately countered by the recent increase in his erection. “John?”

“Mm?”

“Can I watch you masturbate?”

“Sure.” John pulls off his jumper and shimmies out of his trousers and pants. He returns to sitting cross-legged. He’s less than flaccid himself.

Sherlock leans over to the nightstand that has recently been designated John’s and pulls out the bottle of lube he noticed John store away in there two weeks ago. He hands it to John, who raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask how he knows.

“Do me a favour, though.”

“What?”

“Talk to me.”

“What do I say?”

John pours some lube into his hand and snaps the bottle shot, setting it aside, and begins slicking up his penis before he answers, “I don’t know. Tell me why you love me. Tell me what I’m feeling. Why I’m feeling it. Tell me how my body’s reacting.”

“Deduce you while you masturbate?”

John smirks. “Yeah.”

Sherlock obliges, though he’s not entirely sure why John wants this. It seems too clinical for his sexual tastes. “It was your limp that first interested me. It was obvious you were strong—not physically, or not only physically—so I was interested in why you would possibly have a psychosomatic limp. PTSD was the obvious answer. There was so much more to figure out about you, though. Your reaction to Mycroft’s abduction was peculiar. Your willingness to shoot a man for my sake. I thought you were some sort of pseudo-vigilante at first, but you were more particular than that. You didn’t seek justice as a general way of life. You saw something in me that made you want to stick around, and, in turn, I wanted to discover more about you. I will always want to discover more about you. You continue to surprise me. As much as I understand you, as much as I can read you, you continue to be unpredictable.”

John’s eyes are still open, still locked with Sherlock’s, but they’re dark. His penis is fully erect now, and his strokes are firm and steady.

“I admit I wanted to test your boundaries. I wanted to see how far I could push you. You tolerate me more than anyone else, more than Mycroft even. After Baskerville, I decided there was nothing I could do short of killing someone that you wouldn’t forgive me for. It didn’t even have to be in the name of science. I shot holes in the wall because I was bored, and you forgave that. I’ve ruined the kitchen and your food time and time again, and you forgive me. You accept me. You don’t try to change me. You adapt willingly, work around my experiments and moods. I know it’s not easy, I know I’m not easy, but you deal with it and don’t ask me to change. You want me to be who I am. No one has ever wanted that of me.”

John is curled slightly into himself now, his hand moving faster, his eye contact lost.

“You are perfect. Body and mind, you are perfect. Your flaws are perfect. You are the perfect partner for a madman like me.” Sherlock presses his fingertips under John’s chin and urges his face up. John’s eyes are half-lidded, but he looks at him all the same, mouth slightly open. Sherlock presses against that mouth, kissing John with vigour—passion, John would call it. He kisses John passionately. John moans into Sherlock’s mouth. He’s never done that before, and the sensation, on Sherlock’s end, is exhilarating and encourages him to kiss John harder.

John breaks away to gasp, “Sherlock!” He orgasms, his ejaculate spurting across both their laps and a bit on the sheets as well. John leans his brow against Sherlock’s as he strokes through the rest of his climax, and, by the time his hand stills, he’s panting.

Sherlock’s own breathing is less than steady. He grips John’s knees with both his hands. “John. Do it to me.”

John’s grin is lazy. It takes him a moment to open his eyes and look at Sherlock.

“But—I want you to manually stimulate-”

“It’s called a handjob, Sherlock.” John chuckles. “You want me to give you a handjob, jack you off, toss you off, rub one out for you.”

Sherlock swallows. “Yes, that.” His entire body is hot. In any other circumstances, he would be convinced he’s coming down with a horrible illness. Part of him isn’t entirely convinced he isn’t.

“Okay. Lay down.”

Sherlock complies, and John stretches out next to him, his stomach pressed against Sherlock’s hip. With his hand already slick with lube and ejaculate, he starts rubbing Sherlock’s slowly.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s neck before kissing it. “You know, before you, I’d never even fantasised about another man. Most guys do, straight guys, guys more heterosexual than me. Most of my mates in the army had. Not necessarily during their service time, but when you’re going through puberty, all those hormones surging through your body, a lot of straight people fantasise about the same gender at least once. I never did. Not once. Even after you helped me realise how much I love you, it took a while. The first couple times, I honestly got too uncomfortable. Do you know what really did it for me?”

“What?” Sherlock’s voice is breathy. John’s touch is nothing like his own. He occasionally changes pace, or exactly where his fingers press, or gives a slight twist. Sometimes he rubs his thumb across the glans, and it makes Sherlock shiver—not at all unpleasantly.

“Two and a half weeks ago, the Roberts case. When you went berserk on that officer for saying I was only in the way of real police work, at least you were useful. I didn’t need you to stand up for me, I didn’t care what that arse had to say. At first, it annoyed me, you jumping to my defence like that. Then I realised, that’s how much he cares about me. The man can’t even give half a damn about himself most of the time, and he’s getting up in arms about me. That did it for me. From that moment on, I was never going to deny how much I loved you, not to anyone.”

John’s speed and firmness has increased, and Sherlock is pushing his hips into it not entirely of his own volition. He’s never felt like this before, never experienced arousal and sexual stimuli positively. He’s not entirely sure how to react, but his body seems to know.

John brushes his lips against Sherlock’s ear and breaths more than whispers, “Sherlock Holmes, I will never stop loving you.”

Sherlock orgasms with a soft cry in the back of his throat. It’s one of the best rushes he has ever experienced, and it came from sex. It came from John.

Once he’s still and his breathing is evening out, John kisses his temple. “How was that?”

“Vastly different from any other previous experience-” Sherlock cuts himself off and looks up at John. “Pleasurable.”

John grins and kisses his head again. Once they have cleaned up and are curled naked together in bed, John says, “You know, I think I kind of like your cock. I should try giving you head sometime.”

Sherlock, to his own surprise, does not find the prospect at all disagreeable.


End file.
